


When It's All Over

by Erebeus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Murder, Azkaban (brief), Betrayal, Brief flashbacks and moments of panic mentioned, H/D Hurt!Fest 2020, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con (not between main pairing), Loneliness, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Off screen therapy, Self-Hatred, Spy Draco Malfoy, Unhealthy Relationships, non graphic torture, suicidal/death idolization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 06:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26468533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erebeus/pseuds/Erebeus
Summary: If killing you makes Harry happy, you really don't mind.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 37
Kudos: 175
Collections: H/D Hurt!Fest 2020





	When It's All Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acupforslytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acupforslytherin/gifts).



> The title is from the song "When It's All Over" by RAIGN which I had on repeat while writing this.  
> Thanks so much to my beta, [Alicia](https://harrypotterismyhorcrux.tumblr.com/), for fixing all my errors, making this presentable and for all her wonderful smile-inducing comments :D, thanks to the mods for their patience while I crashed and burnt past all my deadlines, and tons of love for acupforslytherin for such a beautifully painful prompt to work on...I know it isn't exactly like the prompt, but I do hope I caught the right vibes~  
> To the readers: I hope you cry while reading this just as much as I did while writing it <3

**THE PAST**

The stone floor is cold under your hands as Potter's shirt slides over the moonlit expanse of his tan skin. His smile, soft, sweet, loving, fills your vision and your entire universe. He leans over to kiss you, deep and slow, before he leaves. His touch lingers on your right cheek. When you close your eyes, for a moment, it almost feels as if he really does love you. His voice, low and content and sleepy, echoes softly in your ears.

Then you open your eyes, and you wonder if he would notice that you'd stopped kissing him back.

The first time he talked to you without hatred in his eyes was during potions. It was two months into term, when you'd finally started realizing the sheer futility of trying to fix the cabinet. Mother's handwriting had gone from shaky to illegibly bloodstained, and Aunt Bella had started sending you updates on the number of muggles being tortured in your dungeons. It was after four sleepless days working on the cabinet, after your first failed attempt to kill Dumbledore, after Severus' first hints that he was reporting back to the Dark Lord. You were having panic attacks every three hours and failing all your classes, and you didn't care because you were failing at life too, and he would kill your parents if you failed, and you hadn't slept for days because your life was a living nightmare, and your hands were shaking, and you'd spilled the last of your moonstone all over the floor, and _you didn't care_ , but apparently you cared enough to care about spilled moonstone to want to _scream_ (if only you had the energy).

It was then that Potter had talked to you. In a calm tone verging on kind, he offered his own powdered moonstone to you, and he'd seemed like an angel to you—silver in his hand, pink in his cheeks, twinkle in his eyes. When you hesitated he had chuckled, pointedly looking at the puke green potion eating away at his cauldron, and rumbled, "It's not like adding moonstone is going to save my grade anyways, is it?"

You'd been so grateful, that you even forgot to question how Potter had failed this potion after months of acing Slughorn's class.

You should've. You really should have.

The rest of the world is still and quiet as you make your way up the stairway. The prefect badge in your hand is sharp enough to slice your palm open. The floor is rough under your bare feet, and the thoughts in your head are as viscous as molasses. If you turn right now, you would reach the Vanishing Cabinet. The cabinet you should be working on fixing right now. The cabinet that will save your family's life. The cabinet that you abandoned because you were too busy falling in love with Potter.

You turn left towards the astronomy tower instead, and you drift up and up and up.

The first time Potter called you a friend, he'd been acting weird for a month. He would nod at you in the hallways, pick up your things when they fell, smile at you when you were alone. For anyone else these actions would have been common courtesy, but for Potter and you, they were definitely _weird_ , but they were also inexplicably thrilling. Every new, dare you say, kind friendly gesture, meant another night spent obsessing over what it meant, what Potter wanted, what he would do next. And since thinking about Potter meant you weren't thinking about the brand on your arm or the poison in your trunk or the corpses at your home, you let yourself think and obsess and watch over Potter in a way you never had before. And you started noticing _things_. You noticed the beauty spot at the corner of his lips, the strength of his tan hands, the sway of his arse as he walked into the Great Hall. You noticed his knobbly knees and his sinful neck and his golden skin. You noticed the dimple in his smile, the bounce of his messy locks, the flicker of his eyelids in the sun. Then you noticed him wandering the halls at midnight, near your prefect patrols, and for some reason, instead of docking points, you followed him over to the kitchens.

It was there that he called you a friend when he asked Father's weird little elf, Dobby, to bring him and his friend hot chocolate. For a moment you didn't understand who he was referring to as a friend. Then you did. And it was as if your world stopped spinning on its axis. Never before had anyone ever called you their friend without an incentive before. But here Potter—Harry was, calling you his friend to get you bloody hot chocolate of all things. You came back every night after that one, to find Harry sitting there with hot chocolate and marshmallows and pillows. On particularly bad days, he even smuggled in some butter-beer. Sitting beside him, for the first time in ages, you felt happy, and you felt loved. Having a friend was an amazing thing.

(Now you wonder at your naivety. Friends are for proper people—people who aren't death eaters or selfish or unlovable or you.)

The walls in the tower are damp under your fingertips. Your feet are silent on mouldy rock. Harry was the one thing that made you feel alive, and now you feel as if you are nothing but steam, floating away into the abyss. You hear it again and again, Harry's voice saying, ‘ _He's a Malfoy, Hermione_ , _his mother is the reason Sirius is dead, I'm just waiting for the right moment to kill him, Hermione_.’ You see the hatred in his eyes, and you feel the aggression pouring out of his clenched fists.

And you wonder, every time he trailed his hand along your cheekbones, every time he whispered the horrors of his childhood into your ears, every time he clung to you as you cried—was it all a hoax? Was he refining his plot to kill you in the worst possible way every time he promised things would be alright? Did he scrub his skin of your disgusting touch after every time you made love? Were you even human for him?

You feel as if you should care, as if you should feel betrayed, as if you need to want revenge. But all you can feel is numbness—a numbness that muffles, stings, freezes your every cell. A numbness that you know from a lifetime of betrayals and loneliness. A numbness that says, _yes of course, how did I even expect anything different_.

The first time Harry kissed you was under the mistletoe. You'd stayed back for Christmas to work on the cabinet (not that you had any hope for progress). When you informed Mother, Bella wrote back to you, a letter brimming with dark promises of power and sadism at your success. If only they were promises of peace and life, instead of a reminder that even if you saved your family for now, the pain wasn't ever going to end. The fire licked your fingers when you burnt the parchment covered in enough dark residue to kill a muggle, and then you went to the kitchens in search of Harry.

There, that night, Harry kissed you with chocolate lips and fluttering lashes, and you hooked your ashy fingertips in his pockets to pull him closer. Harry was the opposite of everything you'd ever known—crass, kind, happy, good, _alive_. You wanted to climb inside him, to cut open his heart and hide yourself away in it, to surround yourself so fully with him that the rest of the world never touched you again. For once in your life, you wanted to see what being good felt like, and being with Harry was the closest thing you could do.

You didn't go back to the cabinet the next day. Or the day after. Or the one after that. It wasn't like the Dark Lord planned on you succeeding. You were done being a Malfoy. (What a fool you were, thinking being a Malfoy was something you could run away from.)

Out on the terrace, the sky yawns big and black over your head. Thousands of stars hold their breath, and the snow covered world stands still around you. Turning your face heavenwards, you can pretend you're in Wiltshire. If you close your eyes, you can almost feel Mother's soft hands caress your cheek and Father's strong arms wrap around your shoulders. The air turns sweet and spicy from the elves cooking in the kitchen, the stone under your hands smooths into warm granite, the Manor's fields quietly rustle in the distance. If you turn around now, the peacocks will be strutting across the gardens, Mother's rose bushes will be in full bloom, the fountains will be spouting clear water. Any moment now, you will go inside and Mother will fuss over your crooked collars. Your father will smother a smile when you abscond with his cufflinks again, and the elves will let you play with the dough to keep you out of any further mischief. This is what it means to be a Malfoy for you—what it meant to be Draco Malfoy. This is what you made yourself a slave for, what you kill for. This is what you put in danger every time you lay with Potter. You think about doing your duty as a Malfoy, about leaving Potter forever, about succeeding in your tasks and making everything perfect at home again.

Something wet trickles down the side of your face. The thing is… the reality is Wiltshire— _your Wiltshire_ —doesn't exist anymore. It stopped existing the day the Dark Lord crossed the Manor's threshold. Ever since, your fountains have been dry, your gardens dead. Nagini hunts your peacocks for sport and you haven't seen a butterfly since two summers. You can barely remember your parents' smiles. The elves may scrub as much as they want, but blood and torture stains every marble floor. You can't even walk to the kitchens without being harassed by werewolves, and Mother needs to lock every door and window before sleeping. Father is in Azkaban, and once he is out, he will never be safe. Whichever way the war ends, your Wiltshire is gone forever.

When you open your eyes, all you will see is the blanket of white beneath you and the empty universe above. This is your legacy. Your future, should you live.

The first time Harry made love to you, it'd been a week since you'd been to the seventh floor. Father had owled you just an hour ago about rumors of you betraying the cause. (When did he get out of Azkaban?) You wrote back: _Fuck the cause_. You knew you were flirting with disaster being so transparently traitorous, but you frankly didn't give a shite. You had Harry by your side, and that was all that mattered. Together the two of you were invincible. Harry found an empty classroom in the abandoned dungeons and transfigured some pillows and sheets for the two of you (red and gold, you note. Green would look better with Harry's eyes). You swiped some skin coloured cream from Pansy's secret muggle make-up stash and spent an evening making sure your left arm looked flawless (if you also used some on your right wrist to cover up knife scars, well, no one needed to know).

Harry fumbled, and it hurt sometimes, and it was awkward and inexperienced, but it was you and Harry, and for you, it was perfect. Everything was perfect. That night, you chose. Harry over your parents, good over evil, short life over survival. And you've kept choosing Harry ever since. This night won't be any different.

A snowflake floats onto your right cheek. The sky is cloudless which means the flecks of snow fall from the stars just like grandfather's favourite snow globe. Another settles on your brow. It feels almost as soft as Harry's hair. You think of the nights you spent talking to him with your hands in his messy locks. You think of the way his smiles have gotten more beautiful these last weeks, the way he has started saying your name like a prayer, a love letter. You think of the happiness he filled your world with, even if it was only for the briefest of moments.

You think of leaving him. You'd never have to see his face again. Never have to pretend everything is okay when it isn't. You think of this past week, and how you've been walking around numb and dead. How you've stopped speaking, how you've stopped touching Harry. _He makes me sick_ , you hear every time Potter reaches for you in the middle of the night. _He's a Malfoy_ , you hear when he tells you how good you are. _I hate everything about him_ , when he says “I love you.”

Then you think of never kissing that dip near his hip-bones. Of never feeling his fingers wrap around your wrists. Of serving the Dark Lord trying to kill the man you love.

Potter and death, or no Potter and survival?

The first time Potter broke your heart was in a tiny alcove in the Tower. You'd gone looking for him after Transfiguration ended early, and instead of being in Charms as he said, you'd found him tucked away in a corner with the mud—Granger. They were arguing about something. Granger said something, Harry threw his hands up in frustration, and your curiosity flared uncontrollably. The eavesdropping spell felt like a splash of water across your fingertips.

"This isn't you, Harry," Granger pleaded desperately. "Even _he_ doesn't deserve what you're doing to him, Harry, please. You're not a murderer!"

Harry's face went stonier than it already was. His voice, when he spoke, promised just as much death as his face. He almost looked like Father in an unholy rage. "You don't get to tell me who I am, Hermione," he drawled. "I can kill whoever I so please. Anyways, you don't _really_ believe he doesn't deserve it, do you?" Small tendrils of a sick feeling crawled up your body. Who was Harry talking about?

"He's just a dumb kid, Harry!"

"He's a Malfoy," Potter said harshly, and your stomach swooped. _You_. _Potter was talking about you._ "I don't need any other reason to kill him, Hermione. There's not a drop of good blood in him. His mother is the reason Sirius is dead, Hermione. _Dead._ Do you understand me? If she hadn't sent Kreacher over to fool us that night, he'd still be alive today."

"So you are doing this to avenge Sirius, is that it? Why pretend to be his boyfriend, and make him feel loved, only to kill him?"

A beat of silence. Softly, he said, "I need him to _hurt_ , to feel betrayed, to lose everything he has, just like I did when his mother took Sirius away from me." Then he smirked. "'Sides, he's a good fuck. I might as well enjoy it while it lasts."

Your eavesdropping spell fell at the same time that you did. There, on your knees behind a suit of armor, you opened yourself up to the reality. People like Harry James Potter don't fall in love with people like you. People like you don't get to escape your fate and name. People like you don't get happiness. No. The only thing you deserve is pain.

The chill of the night settles into your bones as you watch a falling star make its way towards the Earth. If Mother was here, she would tell you to make a wish. “ _The stars are our inheritance Draco_ ,” she'd smile. “ _You just need to ask_.” You think of a green eyed boy with his annoying cowlick and his spindly limbs. You imagine him happy, smiling and laughing and loving. You imagine being the one to make him happy.

If you were to ask for something… If you believed in making wishes… Well, the whole point is that you don't anymore—believe in wishes and miracles and parents. But if you did, you know what you would ask for.

And then you know what you are going to do. It's all quite simple actually. Even if Harry didn't love you, even if this was all a business to him, even if all he wants is to kill you, you think you still love him. His love might be fake, but yours is not. He might not care what makes you happy, but you do. You would ruin the world for his smile.

And if killing you is what makes Harry happy, you don't mind. If he asks nicely, you might even give him your heart on a platter.

In the morning, you kiss him first.

**THE PRESENT**

It finally happens two weeks later. Your confrontation with Potter. Later you find out it wasn't anything you did that tips Potter over, but it happens nonetheless, and it changes your life forever.

Even though you knew Potter wanted to kill you, it is still a surprise when you walk into the abandoned classroom Potter asked to meet you in, and he slams you into the opposite wall. Your head crashes painfully into the stone wall behind you. Potter's livid face swims in front of your eyes, and you know it's the end.

He is yelling something and slamming you over and over again into the wall. You feel blood trickle down your collar, and you can hear lightning crack in the distance. He accuses you of poisoning Ron. He accuses you of a lot of things. You pay it no mind. You savor the feel of his breath on your mouth, of his fingers clutching your neck, even if it is in rage instead of love. He throws you onto the ground across from him. Iron hot pain flashes through your knee, and you back up to the wall. Potter's eyes are full of hatred as he raises his wand, and you are surprised at how much it hurts. Outside the window, the beat of rain on the shingles quickens into a loud drumming frenzy. He opens his mouth and you close your eyes, not knowing what to expect. You wonder if you will like the way you go out. You wonder what flowers Mother and Father will use for your funeral.

Then there is a flash of light, and something thuds in front of you. Thunder rumbles through the floor, and you open your eyes to see Granger wrestling Potter's wand out of his hand. Potter rolls her over, and gets up with his wand still pointed at you. "Harry no!" she cries, climbing up to her knees. "Don't do this. You aren't like this!"

"Shut up, Hermione!" Potter roars back, sounding well and truly unhinged. "He's the reason Ron almost died today, and you're still defending him?"

"No, Harry, you can't kill him!" She throws herself in front of you. "I won't let you become a murderer!" How dramatic, you think woozily. She should just get out of the way. But she doesn't. No matter what Potter says or does, she doesn't move an inch.

Finally Potter throws up his hands. He points his wand at you again, and says, deep and dark with promise, "The next time I see you, I swear to Merlin, I _will_ end you." You have no doubt he will. In fact, he already has. Potter's robes flutter just like Snape's as he strides out of the room.

Granger yanks you up harshly into a sitting position, and your teeth clack painfully together. You roll your head over to look at her.

"I didn't do it for you," she tells you. "I did it for Harry. He isn't a murderer. This isn't what he is."

You want to agree with her. But you remember the light in Harry's eyes, and you have to wonder—how could that not be him? How could that be the same man who fucked you slow and sweet and brought you ice cream when he saw you fail your potions test. You say nothing. You've nothing to say. The room is spinning. You put your hands behind yourself to stay upright.

After a moment of silence she sighs. "You didn't deserve what Harry was doing." Her voice is softer than you've ever heard it be. "No one deserves that."

You don't know who deserved what. All you know is that you've nothing left. You wish Granger had just let Potter kill you. What will you do now? Hide away from the rest of the world and let the Dark Lord kill your parents? Go back and watch the Dark Lord kill Potter? You could go renegade, and you giggle at the thought. "I deserve it," you murmur happily, and Granger's hand stills on your arm. "It's not like I had anything else to offer him." You're not sure you even make sense at that point, but Granger must have seen something in your face because she gasps.

"You knew he was going to kill you." The bare trees outside in the forbidden forest wave in the wind and heavy rain, and your silence is answer enough. You wonder what tipped her off. She repeats, dazed, "Oh my god. You knew he was going to kill you."

You hum. "For a while I knowed." Knowed? Knew? You're too woozy to think straight now. Your vision blurs and your eyes roll up. "Draco?" Granger's voice sounds panicked. Your hands give and you topple over to your left. The floor feels nice and cold on your cheek. Granger's voice goes in and out. The last thing you remember is her hands probing the back of your skull.

Everything is white in Madam Pomfrey's ward. The window beside your bed overlooks the lake, and you can hear a quidditch match going in full gear beside it. Funny how the world still moves on even when you've crashed and burned. Granger tells you that Potter broke your skull. That must be why you passed out.

No one comes to visit you after Granger leaves (once you imagine you can hear Potter’s breath at night). You lay still the entire time and think of everything yet nothing at all. _Go renegade_ , you remember yourself thinking while you were delirious from the hit to your head. It's not a bad idea. You turn over and start plotting.

When you get out of the ward, Theo deliberately trips you outside the common room and laughs when you fall over.

"Did you like it?" He grins wickedly. "My gift?" At your blank stare, he grins wider. "The poisoned mead you were going to give to Slughorn? I passed it onto the Weasel." _Weasley_. Your eyes widen just enough that he bursts into roaring laughter again.

"Oh please," he scoffs. "You think you could abandon your lord to hang out with Potter and get away with it?" He mockingly ruffles your hair. "Think of it as a kind reminder, Draco dear. You're lucky I like you. The Dark Lord wouldn't be pleased to find out what you've been doing." He kisses your cheek and heads up the stairs. "Chop, chop, Draco. You better get to work!"

You watch your friend walk out of sight, before laying your head on the ground and weeping silently.

Granger frowns when you tell her about your idea of turning spy. The next day, she gives you a coin to communicate with her.

You stay out of Potter's sight for the rest of the year. It proves to be harder than you thought. Even in a full crowd, he has the knack for knowing exactly where you are (you're the same way). Slowly, the greens and blues and reds bury themselves deeper into your wardrobe, until everywhere you look, everything is black. Pansy gives you worried looks, but she never talks to you.

That's good, you tell yourself. That's what you wanted. Misery follows you everywhere. She doesn't need that.

Severus calls you into his office, and subtly tries to veer the discussion towards your tasks. Still and silent, you look around his office and note how easy it would be for him to hold you captive here, until you give him the answers he wants. You wonder if anyone would notice, if he killed you. You certainly wouldn't.

You agree with Granger that you need to finish your tasks, but it's May by the time you manage to make your way back to the Vanishing Cabinet. Standing there, covered in dust and one handle broken, it looks like the most innocent thing you've ever seen. The mere presence of it hurts your soul. But you fix it anyways.

The night the Death Eaters test the cabinet, you offer to get Granger as many portkeys as she needs to evacuate all the mudbl—muggleborns from the castle. (You hope that includes Potter. You don't know what you would do if you had to face Potter tonight.) She shakes her head. Evacuating everyone would tip off too many people about your change of sides. Instead, she gets some Gryffindor army (the DA?) to be on hand if needed to do an emergency evac.

When Fenrir steps out of the cabinet, you wish she had listened to you. He grins at you and the warm putrid smell of rotting flesh wafts right into your face. Aunt Bella slaps your back, and every part of you vibrates down to your toes. Like a man stepping up to a noose, you make your way to the top of the astronomy tower. When Dumbledore offers his protection, your wand doesn't waver. Protection doesn't matter shite to once you have accepted your death. When you can't conjure up enough killing intent to successfully kill Dumbledore, Severus steps in and does it for you.

You will remember nothing else from this night, except for the betrayal in Potter's face when he looks at you. It tickles you a little how he expected you to be the good guy after spending a year torturing you for being bad.

Over the summer, you and Granger manage to work out a way to exchange notes inconspicuously. The Ministry falls. Granger tells you she's going camping with Harry instead of to Hogwarts, so you helpfully tell her all of the Snatchers locations on the island. She doesn't tell you where they are going, but she doesn't need to. You're smart enough to figure it out if you need to.

Every evening at six, you hide yourself away in Grand-mére's closet, and tune in to hear Lee and the Weasley twins run the underground resistance. You might not be a part of them, but they too thwart the Dark Lord to keep his attention off Potter, and for that you feel a kinship to them.

They bring in a pregnant halfblood girl, and instead of going to the dungeons, they take her up to where the Death Eaters are living. Father follows them in, avoiding your gaze, and Mother just grips your hand tighter. You spend that night on the bathroom tiles throwing up into cold porcelain.

The next day, you sneak into the elves' sleeping area, and they show you passageways through the Manor no one remembers anymore. You find her, bloody and sobbing, tied up in Rodolphus' room. The entire way to the gates of the Manor, your heart threatens to beat out of your chest. There is no way they won't find out about your hand in this. But watching the girl stumble away into the woods, where Granger would have stationed a get-away team, you feel as if it is worth it.

When her absence is found, both your parents immediately glance towards you. A strange calm falls over your shoulders, and you finger the poison in your pocket. But no one else accuses you, and you realize that for them, you are too weak, too insignificant, too scared to matter beyond having a bit of fun. You should feel happy (you're not).

It is only when you go to sleep that night that you realize that you never asked for her name.

Rookwood is crowing about the newest Death Eater raid in Devon that he's going to lead. _Fool_ , you think as you send that forward. Too many people know about it now. No one will be able to tell who, if anyone, leaked the information.

Potterwatch reports about the Gringotts break in. When you ask Granger, all she tells you is that yes, there in fact was a pale dragon. _Reminded me quite a bit of you actually_ , she writes. _Pale, dramatic, snobby._ You wonder if Potter remembered you too. (You wonder if you and Granger are friends now.)

You can't help the Gryffindors or the upper years. Whenever you go near them, suspicion and disgust follows you. You don't care very much. The other younger years are much better anyways. They learn how to pretend to be under the crucio when you pretend to cast it so well, that it takes the Carrows about a month and a half to figure it out. They chalk it up to you being too weak to cast a crucio and trying to cover it up. The Dark Lord holds you under the crucio for five minutes, but you don't mind. All that matters is that it wasn't your mother.

At the start of hols, Theo tells you in confidence that Pansy will fuck him soon. He's sure of it. Almost as sure as he is that Dolores Umbridge is holding mudbloods captive down in Newport. You don't think Pansy will be fucking anyone any time soon—she's been too busy giving you the worried look. The Order finds 21 muggleborns shoved in a cage in Umbridge's mother's house. In Newport.

Potterwatch thanks the anonymous tipper for the rescue. You turn it off.

They drag another muggle girl into your dungeons. You hear her screams for weeks on end, even after you were sure she'd died.

When they ask you to identify Potter, you want to say no. But then your brain catches up to your mouth, and you say, "I can't be sure" instead. In the other room, Granger screams under the crucio. The Weasel shouts too, and Luna is shifting in her cell shaking her head at you, and you focus on Potter's swollen face instead. He recognizes you. Of course he recognizes you. _I'll kill you if I see you again,_ he'd said. You wish he would. You let Greyback slam your back against irons bars and plot ways to get the Gryffindors out of your dungeons before the Dark Lord shows up. You may need to blow your cover, but that's okay.

In the end, he takes your elf, and your wand, and leaves you behind (like always). Without your wand to keep them away, the werewolves make sport of you, and the Dark Lord tortures you for days on end, but it's okay because at least Potter got away.

Finally, they let you go back to Hogwarts. You've lost all your standing in the Slytherin common room, and without your wand, there is no protection for you anymore. You use all the warding and privacy tricks you know, and when that doesn't work you move your stuff up into the abandoned room you and Potter used to sleep together in. By the second week, your back hurts all the time from sleeping on a lumpy conjured mattress, and your hair is a mass of painful knots. Your stomach hurts from infrequent meals, and more than once groups of children whose parents Father fucked over after the first war have left you bruised and broken in the middle of the dungeons. Most evenings you manage to drag yourself over to the seventh floor in time to eavesdrop on the resistance tuning into Potterwatch from outside the room they're camped in. You don't know how long you can keep this up.

_Soon_ , Granger writes. The final battle will be soon. They're almost done destroying the Dark Lord's fail-safes. You don't write back to her. You will be ready when it happens. She knows you will. She'll keep Harry safe for you.

The Carrows will make sure the wizarding population dies out. You're sure of it. By the end of the year, you don't think a single child will be left alive under their watch. You can't say whether being forced to torture first years is worse than watching the atrocities happening at the Manor. At least there you got useful information to pass on. Here, you can only try and fail to save everyone around you.

When the alarm goes up, you jump straight into action. While most your classmates prepare for battle, you track down every first, second and third year Hogwarts still has in its bowels, and you hide them far far away from the war. They scream and they fight you all the way, but you don't mind a few extra firstie bite marks if it means that all the kids are safe.

You weren't raised to believe in religion, but you send up a prayer to all the gods you've heard the muggleborns name, and some more. _Please, just let Harry be safe_. Then you feel bad, and you pray for your parents and Granger and Pansy too. You yourself don't matter quite as much as the rest of them do.

Somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, your mother lies to the Dark Lord's face to save the man she knew you loved.

The war is over. Harry did it. He killed the Dark Lord. You feel nothing but a tired sort of numbness. Your family huddles in the far corner, part of neither the defeat nor the revels. Your mother tells you, the way Harry survived the killing curse again. She holds you tight, and despite Father's disproving gaze, she whispers to you the way she lied to keep Harry alive. Because she loved you.

Your eyes find Harry automatically in the crowd. His redheads surround him, and there is a lightness to Harry that makes your heart sing. For the first time in years, you can see him without a dark cloud over his head. He's so beautiful when he is happy. Then a moment later, the heartbreak sets in. He's happy without you. He probably doesn't even know you exist.

When they come to take you away, you go quietly. Your purpose here is over.

**THE FUTURE**

Azkaban is not as cold as the Manor, your Manor, had been. In fact it is quite a relief, for the bars caging you and your family in also cage the rest of the world out. Here, in the damp, desolate prison cells, you can lay your head down without worrying about werewolves or snakes or Dark Lords. Here, your mother does not hesitate to put her fingers in your hair, and your father bothers not to scold you for dishonouring the Malfoy name. This place, which is meant to be your nightmare, becomes the closest thing to peace you know.

Here, you are the happiest that you've been in a very long time.

When Granger comes to visit you, she's wearing an orange suit with long dangling earrings. She looks light years different from the girl you remember during the war—half-starved, mud-streaked, and nearly mad. She looks light years different than you in your tattered sandpaper tunic and grime caked face. No one would guess she'd been in a war just weeks ago.

She purses her lips at the meager bit of soggy crup-feed left in your food bowls and nearly has a fit when she notices the lack of any ratty mattresses or urine pots in your stony 25 square feet of space. Your father snarls, and your mother refuses to look up the entire time Granger is there.

But you don't care anymore. Nothing could make you feel smaller than what you've already been put through. You don't have any dignity left to feel ashamed.

You press yourself against the freezing bars and, in a voice rasping with pain, tell her the name of every single guard who has tried to convince your mother to sell her body in exchange for being treated as a living being. Granger does not care much for you, but she does care for justice. And Granger's a woman herself. Her mouth tightens, and you know she'll take care of it.

Then Granger surprises you.

She kneels and picks up your hand, without flinching though you both know the filth and germs thriving on your skin. With a firm voice and firmer eyes, she says, "I will get you out of here Draco."

"Why?" you ask. _Why me?_

"Because it's not right," she murmurs, clenching her jaw. "It's not right, what they're doing to you, after all you've done for us. All you've done for Harry." What you did. What did you do?

"They don't know though," you whisper. _I deserve this_. You never hoped to even imagine anything better than this for your future.

"They will," she assures you. She assesses you, and then lowers her voice to add, "So will Harry." Your breath gets stuck, and your head swims. You've managed to not think of Harry for 1 day and 3 hours now. Not that it matters

She slips you a blanket and a pack of crackers, and you hold them tight to your chest as you watch her leave. You know the guards will rip them both away from you before the night is over, but this strange warmth inside of you, none of them can even see. Someone other than your parents gives a damn about you. It's quite...novel.

Granger visits again twice to prepare you to go in front of Wizengamot. Initially you decide to cooperate with her just to humor her. You think her mad for even trying to get you a fair trial. (You're surprised you even get one.) But then you see Granger's notes, and you hear her strategize, and you realize—anyone who thinks Granger won't win is the one who is mad. She questions you, cross questions you, counter-cross questions you, until your brain is mush and you're sure that even under Veritaserum, you will only say what she told you to.

The only topic she doesn't touch on is Harry Potter. You don't ask. You're happy never to acknowledge his existence ever again.

At the end she stacks her files and says, "The prosecution will have a lot of points, Draco. Every single person there will be against you." A curly lock of brown hair falls into her eye when she leans forward. "But their hate isn't for _you_ , Draco. It's for a version of you that never existed." She squeezes your shoulder tight, as if that would give you strength or courage or, Merlin forbid, hope. "I need you to remember that. Promise me, Draco."

You promise her.

But then again, a promise from a Malfoy hasn't ever meant much anyway, has it?

Every eye in the courtroom is on you, picking you apart, wishing you the worst fate possible. The prosecuting attorney's smirk has slowly deepened as he continues to demand damning answers from your mouth. By now, you don't even care as much about getting out of Azkaban, as you do about smashing the prosecutors face in. The audience has started whispering now, no doubt maligning you at every accusation the prosecution brings up.

Then Granger is on the podium. The Veritaserum burns in your blood, and you can barely breathe as Granger makes her way through the questions you agreed upon. Under the truth potion, you detail every single muggle, muggleborn, half-blood you've smuggled out of the clutches of Snatchers and the Carrows, and off the lands of Malfoy Manor and the Isles. You relay every single time you’d met up with Granger to pass on information and left-over food. You recount every single time you were crucio'd for low-grade sabotage, disguised as perpetual incompetence.

And then Granger asks you a question you hadn't discussed before. "You and Harry James Potter, also known as the Boy-Who-Lived, were in a relationship for three months in sixth year. Please tell me about that." In the silence that follows Granger's question, you can hear your heart beat loud and clear. It takes you a moment to process the question, and suddenly everything goes still within you. You lick your dry lips and look at Granger. Her gaze is firm and knowing. She did this on purpose.

You could refuse to answer Granger's question. You have that much power as a occlumens over the effect of Veritaserum. Involuntarily, your gaze strays over to where you know Potter is across the room. He's already looking at you. You can't read his green eyes. He's shaking his head, like he could control what you do. Your mouth opens, and out pours the entire tale from sixth year—your relationship, the night Granger saved you, your willingness to part from your family for Potter. You pause. Potter is shaking his head harder now as if he can deny everything you say.

Granger continues: "During this time, you were privy to his plans against you and Voldemort. Why did you not disrupt or report back to anyone on any of these plans? Why did you decide to work undercover to destabilize Voldemort's plans?" Potter looks horrified, as if he has just realized you knew all along. As if he is _innocent_. You hope he chokes on the truth.

"If killing me meant Harry would be happy, I was okay with it. If signing my death sentence by spying on the Dark Lord meant Harry would be safe, I was okay with that too," you say clearly. Gasps go up all around you.

"Why?" Granger asks. "Why would you do that?"

You barely blink as the potion in you answers for you. "Because I love Harry Potter."

Potter's cries out, a distressed half-choking sort of cry. He's trembling all over; his eyes are swimming with tears. You feel vindictive as you repeat loud and clear, for everyone in the world to hear and print and talk about, "I love Harry James Potter." Potter stumbles backwards and then falls over himself running out of the courtroom. You tuck this last image of him deep into your chest and ignore the hurt spreading across all your limbs. If you started to hang onto everything, you'd never get anything done.

As always Granger was spot on. The Prophet goes wild over the heartrending romance between the savior and the Death Eater. Even if Wizengamot had decided to stick you into Azkaban, public opinion would have bought you your freedom.

Of course, your mother is on house arrest for the indeterminate future. And your father, you don't ever expect to see on this side of prison ever again.

But you're free. (Not that you deserve to be.) And everyone thinks you're a hero. And you've proclaimed your love for Harry Potter publicly. As a kid, you would've wanted nothing more perhaps. As an adult, you hate everything around you.

Most times you feel like an inferi, dead and cold and will-less. And the times you don't, you feel like you're burning in muggle hell—panic attacks ripping through you every hour, flashbacks waiting for you around every corner.

You miss Azkaban.

Potter's owl brings you a letter. You incendio it, and throw the ashes into Mother's flowerbed.

Two hours later you're on your knees, trying to scrape out every bit of ash and hold it close to your heart.

Potter owls you again. This time you send it back. On the back, in your elegant loopy handwriting, you write: _Don't ever talk to me again_.

And again. You ward the manor against his owls.

And again, and again. Mother is getting worried, but you can't bother to care.

Soon there is a small pile of letters, bearing Harry's chicken scratch, near the front door. When Granger visits, she frowns. "I'll talk to him," she says. "You've done enough for him. He'll stop." _Don't_ , you almost say. Instead you just nod.

She's probably only looking out for Harry, her best friend. She probably only still keeps track of you out for you out of some misplaced feeling of responsibility. You want to let her know that she doesn't need to. But then she'll stop, and you won't be able to pretend she was really your friend. _Selfish_.

He writes you one last letter. You know it’s the last one because you read it. He wants to meet you. You shouldn't go.

But you write down the apparition coordinates anyways.

Mother wants you to see a mind healer. It's all bullshit. But it's bullshit that makes Mother happy.

So, every Wednesday, you bundle up and force yourself to talk about _feelings_ to a stranger.

You read all his letters. Then you do it again. He is beautifully sorry in all of them. He spins a tale of anger and misplaced revenge and finding his sexuality and being a teenager in a war. It's all deliciously tragic.

If only you weren't the man Potter was hellbent on killing but fell in love with instead.

You lock every single page of his writing in your study. When Granger inquires about Potter's letters, you don't tell her anything.

Your therapist doesn't think it's a good idea to show up on Potter's doorstep and beg him to take you back. It's not really. You don't know why you even mentioned that.

It's August 29th. Potter wanted to meet you on the 31st. You're not going to go.

You burn the piece of paper with Potter's coordinates on it.

On the 30th, you ask your mother to set you a meeting with Astoria Greengrass. The Greengrasses are wealthy, their reputation is untouched, and Astoria's a lesbian. It's the best match that will let both you and Tori stay on good terms with your families.

One would think after the war... but no. The world could change, but family never moved an ell.

On the 31st, You find yourself at the edge of Thames. Like on any proper London summer day, a thunderstorm is quite close. When you were a kid, they would scare you something honest. Now, you barely blink as the dark clouds gather over the roiling river.

There, about twenty feet from you, stands a lanky man drowning in over-large tatty clothes. You'd recognize that set of shoulders anywhere. A cigarette dangles from his fingers, and there are lines across his forehead that didn't exist even at the height of the war. Where Granger looks exponentially more radiant with the passing of time after the war, Potter looks as if he has aged centuries. He turns, and his dull eyes catch on yours. "You came," he says, wonder lining his brow, and the clouds rumble again overhead.

 _Of course I came_ , you think. You always came. Like a pet trained by its owner, at the glance of Harry's eyes, at the crook of his finger, at the murmur of your name. "I didn't think you would." You shouldn't have. If you had any sense, the first time you saw him lost and small at Madam Malkins, you should've run far far away from this boy with a nest for his hair and the forest for his eyes.

You tilt your head, watching the curls on his head ruffle in the wind. Your eyes roam his lithe figure, drinking every angle and color in, as if he's the oxygen that keeps you alive. In his absence, you've alternately managed to convince yourself that seeing him would right every wrong in the world, or that his sight would tell you how far you've moved on from him. You were wrong. His eyes bring back every single minute of Sixth year that you thought you'd packed away, every memory that you thought you'd dealt with, every hateful feeling you thought you were over. His sight brings you pain. But you'd still die for him. You'd still kill for him. You're still bloody in love with him.

Harry's voice is hesitant when he speaks, his words carefully chosen. "Draco," he says, and his mouth draws you in like ambrosia. "I just... I'm sorry Draco. I'm so, so sorry." His eyes glitter in the night like two wet jewels. "For what happened back in Sixth year. For all of it. I was so angry and confused and fucked up that year, and I am so sorry, Draco. I was shitty and wrong, and you deserved none of it.” It doesn’t do anything. The apology, all it does is make you feel as hollow as ever. “I didn’t realize what we had was real until I went and ruined everything. And I know, we can't come back from what happened," he whispers every part of him looking shattered, ready to give up. “But, Draco, I still love you.” _We can,_ you want to say, _we can do anything._ You want to say, _We're strong enough for anything, Harry, you love me, Harry, we can do this,_ _Harry. Harry, Harry,_ you want, _Harry, Harry._ But your throat hurts, and everything in you is stuck, and all you can do is stare at the space between your pinky and his on the railing, remembering cold flagstones underneath you, green curse fire above you, Harry's murderous voice around you, and you remember how you hurt that year, all the time how you hurt, how you still hurt sometimes (often-a-times).

Harry buries his face in one hand, the perfect picture of a remorseful boyfriend. You want to forgive him. You want to gather his frostbitten hands in your own trembling ones. You want to kiss each frosty finger, to reassure him, to hold him close and to never let go. _Tell me,_ you want to say. _Tell me something, tell me anything, tell me everything_. "I mean..." he stumbles, "I almost... I almost killed you Draco. For... for no reason!" He lifts his green green eyes to look at you pleadingly. "I don't... I can't... I almost murdered you, Draco!"

"Would've been easier if you actually did." Almost as soon as the words fall from your mouth, you want to take them back. But you shoulder on. "For a long time I wished you'd done it. Wished you'd killed me." The first drop of rain falls on your cheek, wet and chilly. "I was ready for it, you know. I wanted it. Death." Harry's face is painted in horror to your right (why, you don't know, it wasn't like you put up a fight that night. Harry should've known, he should've noticed, he should've... he just should've), but now that you're finally speaking, you don't think you could ever stop. "I wanted it more than I wanted you by the end of it all. A full stop. A way for a bit of peace, a bit of rest, a bit of freedom. Oh the promise of it!" The raindrops are bigger now, sharp and stinging. Their wetness makes your cravat hang heavy around your neck like a noose. "I couldn't kill myself, not with the shame it would bring to the family, to my parents. I couldn't complete my task, not without losing Hogwarts and signing your death sentence. I couldn't give it up, not without killing my parents and ending my inheritance." You lift your face towards the heavens, feeling the droplets cut tracks across the valleys in your face. "I was tired," you say, "I was so tired."

"Draco," Harry says back. "Draco." You think you would end the entire universe for Harry, if only it meant he would say your name again. "Draco."

When you look at him again, the whites of his eyes are red and wet, from crying, from the chill, from the rain, you don't know. His breaths are these great shuddering things that take you back to that night, his wand in your face, your heart stilled. Unlike Harry, your breaths are measured, slow, deep, and your eyelids are dry. Your hurt ran so deep, so cold, so old, that all you can do is feel numb, like a dead leaf twirling on an autumn tree, ready to fall, but unable to let go.

The sight of Harry breaking down, when it’s you hurting, opens a tap of deep anger inside you. "What, no righteous, pitiful, guilt-ridden speech for me, Potter?" You sneer, wishing Harry would stop looking at you. "Don't want to tell me all the ways my life matters, how much you care, huh? Or do you think I deserved it?" Beside you, Potter shakes his head vigorously, visibly crying now, and suddenly every inch of blood in you boils over, and all you can feel and see is rage. Your hands fall against his chest, and you _push_ , and you scream. "Well guess what Potter! So did I! I knew I deserved every bit of shitty piece of life fate doled out to me! I knew I was worthless! You didn't have to cook up a plan to murder me to drive it home! I knew, Potter, I knew!" You scream and you scream, and when your voice breaks, you break into sobs, whispering “ _I knew,”_ over and over under your breath.

You are cold and alone and empty and _crying_. Then the scent of sandalwood fills you up, and you feel the warmth of strong lean arms gather you up against a familiar chest. You should hate this, you should be as far away from the man who tried to kill you as possible, but instead you lift your chin between your sobs, and the wetness on Harry's cheek slips through your parched lips. Harry's voice chants your name into your hair, his rough fingers clutch your sides tight. "You're not worthless, Draco." He says, and you cry harder. So long you've waited to hear those very words from his mouth, so much you've done for them, so much you've given up. And now that he says them, you don't even know if you want them anymore. You don't know anything anymore. "I love you." Harry's voice is soft and tiny, and some piece of you breaks into tinier pieces when you hear his breath hitch. "I love you so, so much. Even when I wasn't supposed to, I loved you."

You both kneel on the cement, crying, until the rain stops, and the dawn breaks. You shouldn't do this. You don't deserve him. He doesn't deserve you. There's a thousand things wrong with loving your murderer, with loving an ex-Death Eater. He pushes the hair back from your forehead, and you close your eyes. An apology doesn't do anything, not when it's for almost murdering your boyfriend. And you know trying again with Potter will end in nothing but pain. You know it's not healthy, it's not good.

But you don't think you will ever stop loving Harry James Potter for the rest of your lives. And you're through with right and wrong, with good and bad. If choosing Harry still means endless suffering, well, it's not a choice you've hesitated to make before, is it?

The first time you kiss him after the war is just as bitter-sweet as the last time you kissed him before it.

**Author's Note:**

> Do check out all the other wonderful Hurtfest fics in the [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HDHurtFest2020) collection or [HERE](https://hd-hurtfest.tumblr.com/) on the H/D Hurt!Fest tumblr page! They're all really really good!
> 
> Also if you'd like, come say hi to me at [my tumblr](https://erebeus-roxy.tumblr.com/)! 😊😊
> 
> Thanks for reading y'all! <3 Comments and Kudos are seen and loved tremendously 🥺<3


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